Not Hero nor Angel
by Lady Abernathy Wordsmith
Summary: John is Sherlock's only doctor, he refuses to see anyone else. But, John isn't prepared to see what Sherlock's body had become after being gone two years. Implied torture during the time-skip, scars, mentions of former drug-use. Not explicit Johnlock, but can be read that way if you squint.


When they'd been living together, John had forced Sherlock to do a great many things, things Sherlock had never bothered to do. Things like eating at least once a day (when he was off a case), sleeping at least four hours (John hadn't even attempted to coax the mad genius to sleep a proper eight hours, he knew that such a feat was simply impossible) and even go to the doctor's every once in a while.

Now, Sherlock would never simply allow someone else to see him in such a state, no matter how many times John assured him that Doctors really didn't care. Maybe it had something to do with some odd body image issue, but that was unlikely, seeing as the tall, willowy consulting detective was, more or less, physically...er...okay? Decent? (No, no, no...Sherlock was many things, but never 'okay' or 'decent'.It's just that trying to describe the physical body of Sherlock Holmes was trying on John's heterosexual identity.)

The ex-army doctor had a feeling Sherlock's reason was something more along the lines of 'it's a waste of my time' than anything else.

It took John half a year of knowing Sherlock to get him into a doctors office, but he only agreed if it were John doing the examination instead of a random family doctor.

Back then, Sherlock was a bit damaged a bit more so than the average adult. Old scars on his arms where unsteady hands used to inject god knows what into his body (his 'transport' as he once so eloquently put it) and a few small lacerations from god knows what, possibly childhood injuries or just as likely adulthood run-in's with less than hospitable dealers and murder suspects.

Other than small markings, Sherlock's body had been more or less common fare. Paler and less muscled than what he was used to, sure (he was used to caring for military personal, after all) but still fairly much as human as to be expected.

During those first few check-ups, John diagnosed pretty much what he already knew; slight malnourishment with a past case of severe drug usage.

But now, as Sherlock removed that purple shirt he was so fond of wearing these days, John could see how his best friend had changed.

His shoulders, which had always been rather broad, were stronger and muscled, as were the rest of his body, stomach, arms, back and all, he looked rather more like an army man as he was now than John did fresh out of service.

But, like John, Sherlock was not without scars from his 'deployment'. There were plenty to speak of, but one in particular caught John's eye as Sherlock undressed. It was a faint red-pink, spread across the right-side of his neck and extending to his shoulder, three or four discernible marks, each in the same crescent shape, like someone had attempted to gnaw through his jugular at one point, leaving a faint and nearly unnoticeable mark on his pale skin, visible only if you were looking for it.

John's latex-gloved hand went to touch that mark, to see how recent, to see if it was a permanent scar...and Sherlock almost flinched.

It was a bare minimum movement, Sherlock's jaw clenching a bit as hands that weren't his own moved to his throat. That in itself was more than enough to make John worry, seeing the familiar, trained caution and apprehension that used to be a constant threat of deteriorating mental health, in himself as well as his comrades on the battle-field.

John instantly pulled away, fingers twitching a bit, trying not to give away what he thought of that mark, and of his friends' reaction, but he knew, of course, that it was for naught.

"A woman," Sherlock said, tilting his head slightly, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, inviting John to look and prod as much as he pleased despite his dislike of it. "Titanium teeth implants. She didn't like that I tossed her boyfriend to the wolves and she tried to do the same to me."

John swallowed a bit, nodding a bit in understanding. Sherlock never asked about his time in Afghanistan, so he wouldn't ask him about those missing two years. He owed Sherlock that much.

But those titanium teeth marks weren't the only new marks on once untouched flesh, oh how John wished that they had been.

Whipping scars all along his back, old flogging marks that dipped past the detectives pant line, skin discolourations all along the outside of Sherlock's right leg, suggesting he'd nearly been skinned. Burn marks on the back of his neck, something that almost looked like a hot fire poker had been pressed against his chest, right over his heart, and thin, ragged marks all along his arms, covering what used to be marred only by distant memories of a former junkie's past.

John could only manage a faint, almost shaky question. "How...?"

Sherlock, for all his brilliance and quick wits, could only manage to look away, as if ashamed of what his body had become, and of John seeing him in such a way. "Sometimes...being clever wasn't enough."


End file.
